The Christmas Tree
by Sage Everett
Summary: It was a gift from Mrs. Hudson. "Can I set it on fire?" "No." Silly little holidayfic. UPDATE: 12 Days Of Christmas with Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Aaand I'm back again. With another fic. This one's for the holidays. Just a silly little thing. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadly.  
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"And why would I want _that_?"

His nose crinkled in distaste as he looked at the offensive object.

"Because, _Sherlock_, I am your flat mate, who's paying for half the rent, chasing serial killers with you, and dealing with your overall _insanity_. Besides, Mrs. Hudson got it for us,"

"You know, there's a fine line between genius and insanity, John,"

"And God knows you've crossed it more than once,"

"You _like _the chase-"

"I also like having three square meals a day and a full night's sleep,"

A glare was given in the direction of the offending object. "It disrupts my thinking,"

"How, may I ask?"

"The lighting and all the sparkling; it's distracting. And rather gaudy, may I add,"

John glanced at the mini-Christmas tree in the corner. With all it's tinsel and brightly colored baubles and ornaments it did look a little… over-garnished. But it also added a little festive cheer to the place, which John turned back to Sherlock,

"You can turn it off at night,"

"…Or I could just shoot it."

"Sherlock!"

"Well, I'm bored,"

"You are not to shoot the tree," John stated firmly with a stern look.

"Set it on fire?"

"No,"

"Add chemicals to it?"

"No,"

Before Sherlock could suggest something else, John cut him off, "There will be no destroying or experimenting on the tree. If I find so much as a singed branch I will set Mrs. Hudson on you,"

The last statement was said half-jokingly, but John found that Mrs. Hudson had strange authority over Sherlock and it had quieted him a bit. John retreated to the kitchen to make some tea, but found that they were in short supply and, for some reason, out of milk. Again.

"Sherlock, I'm off to get some more tea and milk," he announced, as he put on his jacket.

When he turned around, he found Sherlock staring at the tree with the same amount of interest a cat would show its new scratching post.

"Don't destroy the tree while I'm gone,"

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and a vague hand gesture to show that he had heard.

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An hour later John returned to the flat and headed for the kitchen. It took him a minute or two of unpacking the groceries to realize something was off. He sniffed the air. There was no burning or chemical smell. He peered into the living area. Sherlock was still lounging on the couch, but hidden by the newspaper.

The he saw it. What he missed from when he first entered the flat.

"Sherlock, why is the skull on top of the tree?"

"Because I was bored and you said not to destroy it,"

John opened and closed his mouth and realized he had no reply to that. Besides, he didn't destroy the tree. And the skull looked rather jolly, if a little creepy, nestled among the tinsel and branches. John retreated back to the kitchen shaking his head and grinning to himself.

Only on Baker Street.

**END**

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**AN: Eh. Ending was little lame. Hope that wasn't too painful to read. Reviews are love. Comments and criticism welcome. Flames will be used as shooting targets for Sherlock and John. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hi! Thank you all for your reviews! You guys rock! And since you guys asked so nicely I've decided to update this one. The '12 Days' prompt seems to be very popular. So, I've decided to give it a shot. Enjoy!**

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_On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: a partridge in a pear tree_

John came home one evening from the surgery, dead tired, and in dire need of tea and peace. It seemed however he might not get the last one. Sitting in the middle of the living room, in a cage, was a little brown bird. It made a little chirping noise before settling back down. John looked around for certain genius to come around and explain.

Lo and behold, Sherlock entered the flat and sat on the couch, examining the bird. And all without a word to John. John stared at Sherlock patiently waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, John spoke up.

"Sherlock, why is there a bird in our flat? Does Mrs. Hudson know about it?"

Suddenly Sherlock shot off the couch as if he'd been stuck by a pin. "It's for an experiment," was all he would say before disappearing into the kitchen.

John listened as Sherlock moved about the kitchen and winced as he heard glass break. He sighed. He wasn't getting his tea either then.

_On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: two turtle doves_

John thought the date with Sarah had gone fairly well this time and returned quite happy until he saw the newest additions to the flat. Two turtle doves. Sitting in a cage. On _his _chair. He cursed Sherlock under his breath. He looked back at the doves; they were preening each other's feathers.

"Sherlock!"

"It's an experiment," Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen, "They'll be gone soon enough,"

"They won't be breeding, will they?"

Sherlock briefly poked his head out from the kitchen.

"Nonsense, John, they're both male,"

_On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: three French hens_

The partridge and the doves had been relatively quiet. But at two in the morning it was rather difficult to ignore the clucking. And when John woke up with a live chicken on his chest he decided he was going to have to talk to Sherlock about this ongoing experiment.

_On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: four calling birds_

When Sherlock attempted to bring in four more birds, both John and Mrs. Hudson put their foot down. It was getting to be too much. There wasn't enough room for all these birds. Other residents were beginning to complain about the noise. Not to the mention the _smell_. Oh, God, the smell.

After some arguing and threatening, the birds were cleared out that day. And Mrs. Hudson made chicken for dinner.

_On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: five golden rings_

John had been wary about opening the fridge since the day he found a head in it. And it didn't stop there. There were various body parts and fluids in the fridge at different times. It was like living in a horror house. But John decided to risk it this morning and at this point didn't think there was anything that could surprise him. Boy, was he wrong. Laying between the egg carton and milk was a hand with five golden (if a bit gaudy) rings. John didn't know whether it was the rings or the fact the hand clearly belonged to a female that made it rather disturbing to look at.

He closed the door. Takeaway it was then.

_On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: six geese a laying_

John nearly screamed in frustration when he was greeted by the sight of six geese wandering around the flat.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up from the computer, unconcerned by the goose that had settled in his lap. Giving him his best 'I was in the military' glare, John growled,

"Three words: Goose. Down. Pillows."

The birds were moved to a different location that day.

_On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: seven swans a swimming_

John could feel his blood pressure rise at the sight of seven swans in the living room. It was only when he took a moment to realize that the swans weren't moving. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that these swans were rather realistic looking decorations. It made John wonder what kind of experiment Sherlock was conducting this time.

"Our victim was rather eccentric."

John jumped and looked around. He nearly laughed at the sight of Sherlock crouching between two swans.

"Victim?" John questioned.

"From the latest case," Sherlock answered, waving over at the case file on the desk.

John breathed a sigh of relief.

_On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: eight maids a milking_

John stared at the eight cartons of milk sitting on the table. And he wondered for the hundredth time that week how Sherlock functioned as a human being. Doing the shopping shouldn't be this difficult. He sighed and picked up a carton, staring at the pretty Dutch maid milking a cow on the front. And not only did he pick up more milk then either of them needed, he managed to get Dutch milk going by language used on the carton.

"Note to self: never let Sherlock do the shopping,"

_On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing…_

"I don't care if you can't dance well. It's fine, c'mon,"

Sarah pulled him onto the to the center of the room where others were dancing. He smiled sheepishly as she placed her hands on his shoulders. The hospital was throwing a Christmas party and Sarah had insisted he had come. He was glad that he did, though how Sherlock managed to get himself dragged into this, he'd never know. He looked over Sarah and immediately spotted him.

Molly had managed to drag him on to the dance floor as well (John imagined bribing him with corpses had been involved). They were positioned the same as him and Sarah were, only Sherlock looked rather awkward and confused. John chuckled and returned his attention to Sarah. She was smiling at him.

"Having a good time?"

"Oh God, yes,"

_On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping…_

John was rather suspicious when he came from work to a quiet, experiment free flat. A little less when Sherlock came down ready to go out.

"We have a case?" John asked.

"Hm? Oh, no, sadly. Mrs. Hudson got us two tickets to a play in the London Theatre,"

"And?"

"We're going," he answered simply, going out the door.

"Really?" John asked disbelievingly, following him.

"Yes. Oh don't look at me like that. I've been to plays. Not all are boring, especially if the music is good. Besides, you like plays, don't you?"

"Yes," John admitted.

"Good. And you can consider this your Christmas present from me,"

John snorted. He knew it. "Cheap bastard,"

"Merry Christmas to you, too, John," he replied with a smirk.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock,"

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**AN: Somewhat better than last. Click-y the review link and leave your comments, criticisms, and suggestion. Flames will be used to cook the remaining French hens. Thank you.**


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